Poor man's tavern. Cheap drinks. That one damn bar who tried to pass gaily seeds' washing water as a real spirit. Those were somewhat unflattering if not understandable impressions of the Adventurers’ Guild. Designed by one of the most notable principalities' [Advisor of State], Martha Vellenbaum, the now continent-wide organization was devised — designed as so. Welcoming and familiar, yet distant and dutiful. All at the same time.

The source of that was thought to be one of her most known laments: that the Lady’s work of safeguarding the realm was mostly done by the desperate part of the masses — the underprivileged, the have-not. Exchanging your chance of living your own’s life with complete intact limbs and the smile of your loved ones apparently was not something noble. More like something unconscionable. Unconscionable to those who had a lot of coins at least.

Which was the reality. One that was dictated in her own word: ‘abyss she helped to create and foster and make flourish.’ And she would confess this to anyone who dared themselves to ask. But no one asked. Not in the way she wished.

Instead, they …’asked’. And oh, how did they ‘asked’, how did they ‘asked’.… Vulpine smile they gave; sweet and cloying and sickening she tried to stave. Just because she succeed — just because she was showered by both of the crowns’ praise, it didn’t mean that she was glad. That she smiled. What she did. What she had done was ...damnation. She birthed from her hand a river of blood that pooled its stream from the life of every overeager youth — desperate father, desperate mother, and other countless souls she wrought from the corner of every slum.

Her success, her brilliant and bright success as they ever told her, was one that paid in lives; the reality that while now was a bit brighter, still the reality she wished she hadn’t known.

She was just a girl of twelve summers when she began to see the reality’s long shadows. It’s a blur and her eyes can’t focus on its true shape, yes. But she saw them — seen them nonetheless. It was hard not to.

On those days, she spent her time on weekly soirees and once in a calendar ball; on the fourth meet-up, on sixth parlor game, or when one of them was up to, an afternoon meil. Anytime. There was no obligation entrenched to them. Yet.

So she, she and her friend, and the ladies that were yet her friend, but she tried to befriend as her mother and father asked her to, would wander the rooms. From lounges to grand halls, from verandas to antechambers. Those days they —she and her friends— were the young peers. And they would talk and talk for bells. Yet most of the time as the calendars changed and the season passed, she stops being excited. Only fake laughs (not polite, people could hear polite) that had ever passed her lips most of those days. It was not her fault, she sometimes tried to assure herself, it was ...them. Their conversations she meant. The ladies were fine. They were still the nice and kind and fun friends she spent her childhood with. But their conversations… more often than not, contain no substance. Except perhaps the few fringes which were the realm’s economic if she counted (charitably that was) which Ladies that had a new silken frock especially brought from Parsteil. That could be (somehow) counted as a form of overseas’ market discussion. What was trending and what not. Everything from the elusive Arrow’s Isle always had. But oftentimes, the discussions didn’t even touch the fringe. Those at least would cajole her for the evening. Instead, much of them as they grow older, and raucous (she didn’t tell this to their face), much of the day discussion revolved around which Lords they found quite ...strapping. Either by coins or by doing fine in vanquishing the enemy’s men. Power, wit, skill; preened and giggled; she heard them all.

It was on her veil day. Her seventeen summers just before starmist when she found out. Found out the truth.

She always knew; she had her guesses. But when it was said without any misdirections; without tact or worrying whether it was polite or not; where it was blatant, there was ...this release. This knowing. This acknowledgment to the burst that was inside her heart. Affirming what she felt wasn’t foreign. That there was another person who could describe her unease — her discordant unease with such perfect clarity.

And still, even now, as she lay buried under the stones and soil ten paces deep, she still regarded her as her first teacher.

The woman — the lady was her mother addressee and she was the day’s Lady. The meeting happened by chance or by fate — she could never be sure, what she was sure was when she retired for a break to the drawing room’s side chamber was when she found her. It was nothing scandalous. She just needed a breath, both from siel leaves’ puff that the Lords and Lordlets here loved to burn their own lung with and the smile, the tiresome smile she needed to wear all day before her third veil, the black drab over the silken white one, placed over her on tonight last bell. And as she opened the door, closing it behind her with a huff, there was ...her; sat and with closed eyes, her chest heaved slowly on the lone, padded chair beside the serving table.

She didn’t remember exactly what had transpired, after twenty seasons, summers just blurred. But she remembered her smile, wan and weary as she told her with the patience of Her Light Herself. It was a fact she knew but refused to know: the noblesse oblige which she clutched dearly was not something that created for the service of the people, instead, her teacher, as she called her from that day, explained that it was simply an idea — a speak, something those in the throne, castles, and fiefs peddled to the populace. Selling them a merchant’s hope, she recalled her thin lips smile.

It was a promise that if the stir was big enough; if they were lucky to catch their high eyes, there existed a way of beseechment — an unlikely entreat to solve the great injustice that had fallen to anyone besides them.

And in the world where coins and power ruled, the peddled hope was the only hope.

Yet to that statement, true as it was, she held hope. She knew that there were honors in the call. That it was head-turning, invited reverence, and sometimes ...deference. Things that in the court of high, mattered. However, like she was told for the first time, she was told for the second time:

That it was, that the fact. That the respect and praise heaped was fake indeed. People rather, hoard their gold. Someone spending theirs were something they preferred.

So when the chance came upon her to keep the populace safe. Both from the danger which lurked the dungeon and prowling outside, ambushing the unwary, she did it. It was a chilling heel turn if one asked her circle of peers. That the woman of such sweet smile said that to triumph one must deal a Kraa-damned bargain.

It was accounted that she recruited soldiers, retired and disillusioned battlemasters that were willing to teach those who had a spirit inside them to fight — to protect their families and friends. It was accounted that she spoke to the townfolks, like the thrones and the castles and the fiefs, she peddled them opportunities and hope for a brighter future — she contacted the merchants. Painting picture of overflowing produce, safer roads — banditless and monsterless. And finally, she promised the lords and ladies, mayors and magistrates, duchess and countess of high; of an army, one that not funded by their own coffers, but by the mere promise of treasure.

The Adventurers’ Guild.

Unlike others, however; others who also had tried to utilize the power of the masses using coins and promise, she went further. Her further, people said. Stroke of genius, other whispered. Instead of just sellswords and masterarchers, instead just shieldbearers and pyromancers, she sent [Scholars] — [Scholars] and [Librarians] to the dungeon depth. The first to seek each creature’s weakness while the latter to record them for posterity. But that wasn’t enough for her. Next, she sent [Trapmasters] to scout the paths and their traps; then she hired [Planners] to build around them. And to ensure they were maintained she employed [Minders] and to fund it in perpetuity she allowed [Miners] and [Merchants] to be the first among every eager man and woman to scour every pace for earth-hidden treasures.

Then to her workers, prospective most of them, she catered to their anxiety. Accounting for their baseline comfort level. After all, it'd not do if they were to shrink from membership just because they thought that vambraces and splints; that swords and their shining sheen, were something that could only be owned and used by those of the highborn.

It began with the outside.

The entrance of the guild, whether her first in the Faycliff or any branches for that matter, were never barred. There was no door — never door. Just a simple stone archway, raised ever so slightly from ground level. It was welcoming, inviting. It was a curiosity that did not overstep one’s station. None of that gilded marbles of merchant guilds or guard-manned gate of the casters’ magic academies. No. The entrance was there. Stood and simply stood.

Walking in, a prospective worker would find something ...unique, not because it was something they had never seen, no. But it was something that their neighbors and parents and aunts and uncles did to their home that it was a surprise to find that such a noble establishment as this did the same.

The floor.

The floor was painted. It was something that didn’t last, everyone knew. The crisscrossed panels’ pattern would coat for maybe two moons, at most three. But the brown layer was familiar to anyone who had traveled from their villages and into the big towns. To cities. Foremost, it was ...distinct and always there. On the important building, on the important places such as the town hall, the market square, and even, when they were allowed to visit them because of the mooncalm, the front side of the nobles’ houses. The real thing of course. The ones that were made from aged cleftwood and labor of at least four carpenters hammering side by side to ensure the woods warped in the right way. Not the one they had mimicked from crushed barks and muds and blacksmith dust. But even for the latter, the pattern lent warmth. At least perception of it. That was why it was often done before important occasions. Like wedding as a sign of respect to their in-laws, after a starmist, as gratitude to the Lady’s bounties, or when one of the family’s children got a good job that paid in silvers. In a way, it was and had always been how a family announced to their neighbors that something good had happened to them.

And the guilds? They had them — the floors like so.

Still, to ensure the populace even further, as one went deeper, one would find that the guild, the good guild employed a ...different technique on their quest notices. They were displayed in letters, of course. Could not communicate information without words. However, unlike the snotty ones that used by [Scribes] who kept insisting that their backward fools need to write properly from the top left, to fill the papers in ‘order’ of submission, to not waste other people ink by writing too big or too crooked or too small that their letters became hard to read, the quest notices were thrown without any of those regards. They were a jumbled mess. Strewn posts upon posts upon post with any sense of order, but one. Ranks. Other than that, they were haphazard sheaves thrown one after another. Anything else, she said, would just scream bureaucratic legalese that deterred fledgling workers. And without those workers who would exterminate the town sewers' rat? Who would handle the goblin infestation? Or simply finding Mrs. Smith's cat? It also helped that such method trained them on the joy of treasure-seeking. Finding a good quest was an adventure on its own.

Then there was the eatery. Created with a similar purpose in mind, she designed it to be filling — energizing after laboring oneself on yet another life-risking escapade. The foods came in heaps and they came cheap. Not so much for the spirit though. It was unbecoming to allow a rowdy, blown-off atmosphere. That kind of pent-up desperation simmering under the mind of almost dying twice today was better left out to the local tavern. Clients needed to be reassured every now and then that even the local rabbles were up to their minimum expectation.

Which was why the staff, and mainly the receptionists, those who had to face their workers every day, were constantly reminded to act in a professional, helpful manner. Even the friendly ones, they were reminded again and again not to flirt with their patron for tips like some of their less reputable counterpart. It was a tragedy that their workers were scrapped from the bottom barrel of society, but the guild, she hoped for her soul’s mercy, did not need to be so.

And for those who managed to climb enough ladder of the guild rank, they were taught the truth. That their mission was one of mercy, of Lady’s work. Dangling treasure in front of everyone eyes and reassuring them that the guild did everything they could to ensure everyone’s safety even though most of the time it could do more, well, that just how the reality worked. Disappointing and horrible and people must live in it.

Which was why as today evening, when the sundown bells were just heard, when the moon just peeked out, one of them, the officially known as the head receptionist of Ar’endal Adventurers’ Guild, Mirabelle, was hurrying almost to the point of sprinting to her guildmistress’ room.

"Guildmistress! Guildmistress!" the receptionist knocked, her brows were full of sweat, her neck was sheen of sweat; her gloves in stains, clutching a scroll.

"The door is unlocked."

Inside, a woman was seen scribbling. Piles upon piles of scrolls and sheaves were littering her desk. There were books and ledgers opened here and there; an orb glowing with manalight was placed on the corner of her desk.

“It’s confirmed, Guildmistress, it’s confirmed. I don’t think it’s true when you told me but, Her Light, Guildmistress, it’s confirmed.” the receptionist rambled just in front of her desk, glancing back once more to make sure that she had shut the door before she handed her the scroll.

"Who?" the woman said, unfurling the erwee leather, it was a report. A complete one of the activity of the..."Winged Lance, Guildmistress! You told me to tell you immediately when they arrived on 5th."

"Oh yes. Emily little gaggles. So soon? It’s only their third day," she said reading from the scroll. “And they skipped on harvesting, fascinating...”

"So that how is it. Good job dear, you surprised us once more.” the one who been called guildmistress smiled, furling the scroll back. “Thank you, Mira, you've done very well. Tell them to keep us informed."